The Scarf
by QueenCelestiaxyv
Summary: "The memory of that bold pattern, never changing, blue and white contrast, beautifully alternating filled his mind, allowed him to breathe, and see past the red." Ivan/Netherlands Scarf


_The Scarf_

**Author:** Queen Celestia

**Disclaimer:** Do not own / make any money off of this

**Note: **This was for the deviantart Netherland's communities, scarf contest. 3

He liked the feel of the scarf. It was different from his – exotic.

The bold blue and white pattern was just like the man – unforgiving and blunt.

There were no fancy patterns, or swirls, or jagged edges that dropped off into nowhere.

The lines were crisp, clear, their purpose obvious, their design simple.

His own scarf was plain, the colour faded with time and use. A mere rag, only kept for sentimental value.

One would not think, that to the touch, the material would be soft.

Holding it against his cheek, Ivan let out a happy sigh.

Somehow it seemed softer than his own scarf, the material of obviously finer quality.

And the smell, snuffing happily, the scent assaulted him. The mixture strong and contradicting; the harsh smell of liquorice merging with the waft of marijuana, then turning sweetly into the scent of pastry, followed by the lingering memory of maple.

To be touching, nay holding, the object of his desire seemed like a dirty sin. What if he was caught out? The material draped across his hands, his large nose enfolded in the creases.

He knew the meeting would start up again soon, long hours of longingly staring at the scarf, sitting on his hands so as not to get up, and lunge across the table in needy desperation.

Surely a few more moments couldn't hurt? He thought, as he daringly wrapped the material around his own neck, pulling it tighter, slowly and confidently until he could feel his air constrict happily.

The material tight, was not abrasive, in fact it just felt like a warm hug, a bandage for a broken artery – the thought of his blood spilling out and soaking the material made Ivan feel high with ecstasy at the thought, before he realized his dirty, unworthy blood would forever taint the pristine white material, darken the perfect blue.

That thought brought him back to the present and reluctantly, he unwrapped the material from around his throat, gently folded it back up, before slipping it into the jacket that hung there.

Fingers lingered on the pocket, as if stuck between the decision to go back to the conference room, or stay with their true companion.

Would it be odd to say, that the presence of that scarf had saved him on numerous occasions?

Reluctant fingers wrapped his own scarf around his neck, which he had carefully stuffed into his pocket – it would be blasphemy for the two scarves to touch. His own dirty worn scarf touching that thing of beauty? The thought made him shudder, and grasp his pipe tightly.

Leaden feet, managed to drag him away back to the conference room, his heavy body settling into his favourite seat; it was always soft, warm and had an oddly comforting presence.

It was true, the whole scarf saving him.

Well, not in the sense it had hung off of a cliff and saved him from falling in a near death experience, no not in that way. That would be ridiculous, and highly unrealistic.

Settling further into the chair, whose scent mildly reminded him of the scarf, Ivan let his thoughts wander.

He didn't care for the man, no that would be letting his emotions run too far, and it would be stupid.

It was the scarf, the memory of it, the texture of it that had saved him from the brink of insanity on many occasions.

Those days when the blood on your hands looked like badly diluted paint, when you look to your next victim with excitement, only to realize that their quivering body disappoints.

When everything is grey and suffocating, and you're sitting amongst a pile of corpses the metallic taste of blood dull in your mouth…

That scarf managed to save him.

The memory of that bold pattern, never changing, blue and white contrast, beautifully alternating filled his mind, allowed him to breathe, and see past the red.

Those days where the only scent filling his nose was sweat, blood and the thick smog of chemicals, he would get a whiff of the scarf. It's unique smell drifting from somewhere unexpected.

The first few times this happened, he had excitedly looked around, his eyes searching for a glimpse of the material, only to see nothing. Well.. unless you counted that time Belarus had been stalking him, and her sash had played a cruel trick on him. How he hated that sash! A similar pattern but so wrong in so many ways. It angered him to think about it, a sash that defaced beauty.

Sometimes he wondered if she had found out his obsession, and had attempted to imitate it. Other times he knew she hadn't, for who in their right mind would try to imitate something so perfect, and get it so wrong?

So when that scent came, he took it as is, a sort of long distance hello.

A salutation from a distant comrade.

When the times had changed, with a new regime into place, Ivan had dedicated his flag to that scarf, the blue and white horizontal lines, carefully abetted by the red. When he had submitted the proposal he was afraid he had lain his heart out for all to see, but everyone around him were in fact fools. They assumed it was just lines across the page, and relieved at the simpleness they had agreed.

There were times where he had pondered stealing a piece of the scarf, or the scarf in it's entirety, and bring it home with him. The idea of hours upon hours laying on his bed wearing only that scarf had filled his mind many a time.

But the thought of defiling something so perfect by tearing it, had made Ivan's stomach clench queasily.

Followed by the depressing thought that if he were to steal the scarf, and were to hold it against him all the time, that perfect combination of scents would disappear, and the scarf would smell like him.

Like his own dirty rag of a scarf, tattered and ugly just like him. Become something imperfect.

No, it had taken him a while to push these thoughts onto the back shelf of his mind. He kept wanting to deny it, but he realized with some agony, that the only time he would be able to have with the scarf would be stolen moments.

When the other put it down, which was rarely, or took it off, which didn't happen too often in public.

There had been a time where he had foolishly considered making the man his friend, but after a few failed attempts thwarted by the mans bluntness Ivan had settled to admiring from a distance.

Once, he had the plan of breaking into the house, but he realized the error of that. The scarf was usually with the man, so the man would have to be home, and it would be fatally embarrassing to be caught with the scarf.

His eyes drifted over to the man who usually wore the scarf, reclining in his chair boredly, his eyes searching the room as if for someone, a small frown on his face.

Ivan didn't really care, as far as he could tell everyone had arrived, except for that irritating America. He was more enthralled with how odd the man looked without his scarf, without the present jacket. The conference room was hot, but Ivan was good with that, good with keeping his jacket on. He didn't want filthy pick pockets touching his stuff.

Eyes lingered to the door, to the small room where he knew the jacket hung, the scarf carefully stashed away… maybe there was still some time?

Disappointingly, that irritating American chose that moment to jauntily enter the room, meaning the meeting would begin right away.

Sadly, Ivan leaned back in his chair, making himself more comfortable, the chair making an oddly muffled squeaking sound in protest.


End file.
